My Brother's Lullaby
by Sentimental Star
Summary: **COMPLETE** A single tear did what reunion, reconciliation, and wounds could not...--Brotherfic. Moviebased.--


**Disclaimer:** I own nothing in this marvelous universe; it all belongs to C.S. Lewis. The song lyrics are my own.

**A/N:** Hi, everyone:grins: _**CoveredInGlitter**_ requested that I write this fic, so _**CoveredInGlitter**_, this one's dedicated to you. It takes place just after Edmund has been rescued and returned to Aslan's camp. Since I know at least a few of us were just itching to shout "So hug already!" at Peter and Edmund, I decided it couldn't do any harm to write this. Of course, it's a little more complicated than that…:grins again: Please enjoy!

"**Speech"**

**/Personal Thoughts/**

**One-Shot. Non-Slash.**

**.:My Brother's Lullaby:.**

By Sentimental Star

(Early Morning, Aslan's Encampment)

The golden dawn had just sliced into the furrow between two hills where tents of red and gold flapped gently in the warm breeze. From a tent nestled in a grass-covered nook between two rocky ledges, a lone figure emerged through the flaps and headed for a second tent sitting nearby.

On his way over, he caught sight of a glossy black centaur…and stopped, eyes on the majestic creature as he made his rounds.

Oreius, who was, of course, the centaur, sensing the weight of the young prince's gaze, paused momentarily and returned it with a questioning one of his own.

Peter, his words catching in his throat, only managed an imploring look. If there was no news of Edmund…

Oreius's gaze softened in understanding and, catching the young man's eyes, he directed them to a nearby ridge. Seeing he had effectively caught the Son of Adam's attention, the centaur went on his way.

Peter did not notice—his gaze was riveted on Edmund where his younger brother talked with Aslan.

Swallowing thickly, the older boy squeezed his hands into fists at his sides and tried to ignore the burning sensation behind his eyes. Tension rippled through his body.

He supposed he could have rushed up to his brother had he wanted to, but as much as he would have liked to, he…couldn't. It was as if a strange paralysis had taken him over.

Hurt and betrayal battled with guilt and love, causing a maelstrom to whirl within him.

Therefore, when Susan and Lucy emerged from their own tent a few moments later, rosy smiles on their faces, Peter shot the older of the two a pained look.

Susan's smile gradually slipped from her lips, as did Lucy's, and both girls glanced at the ridge where Edmund and Aslan were talking.

Susan went still, gazing at the two with a small, thoughtful frown.

Lucy, however, seemed to have no reservations whatsoever.

Upon catching sight of her older brother, a wide grin spread across her face and she gave a soft, delighted gasp, "Edmund!" came the happy cry as she darted forward, catching the attention of the two on the ridge.

Peter gently caught her arm before she went too far, and shook his head at her, face stern.

Lucy stopped, giving him a confused, slightly hurt look.

The thirteen-year-old said nothing, turning back to watch as Aslan gave Edmund a nod. Edmund glanced at his siblings again, before making his way slowly down the ridge.

Peter's face tightened as he caught sight of the bruise, cut, and split lip which adorned his little brother's face. Battle scars, from his time with the Witch.

It became progressively tighter as Edmund gradually neared them.

When the ten-year-old was about halfway across the distance which separated him from his brother and sisters, the oldest of the three looked up at Aslan as the Great Lion gazed at him.

The look he gave Peter was inscrutably tender, warm, and knowing all at the same time, and it calmed him like nothing else could, assuring him that no matter what had happened, he needn't blame himself for it.

While it did not make the guilt disappear, it did take away its biting edge.

He released a quiet breath he had not realized he'd been holding, his shoulders falling as the tension in them laxed, and he shot a grateful look at the Lion.

Aslan merely dipped his great head in a nod, eyes warm, before jumping down from the ledge.

Peter's gaze returned to Edmund, then, the younger boy having pulled within a few meters of them. Soon enough, he reached the three other children and there stopped, but an arm's length away.

Hesitantly, he raised his head and risked a look at his siblings.

Peter felt his throat tighten once again, and tears burn at the back of his eyes. Beside him, he sensed the girls standing just as awkwardly in their places, neither they, nor he, nor Edmund knowing quite what to do.

Fortunately, Aslan solved that dilemma for them. "Here is your brother," the Lion spoke up softly, coming to stand next to the younger boy and gently nudging him forward. He fixed each of the siblings with an intent stare. "There is no need to talk to Edmund about what is past."

And after so saying, strode away.

Edmund gazed after him a moment before turning back to his brother and sisters. He briefly cast another, rather guilty, glance at the three and lowered his eyes to the ground. "Hello," he managed weakly, looking terribly weary and resigned.

Lucy gave a small, warm laugh and moved forward, hugging him.

The youngest boy visibly relaxed, even smiled, and slipped his arms gratefully around Lucy, shutting his eyes and leaning down to rest his cheek against her hair.

Peter, watching this, realized that pretty soon he was going to start crying. Especially if the situation grew anymore emotionally charged than it was already. And after their father went off to war, he had sworn to himself that he would never let his siblings see him cry.

He could hardly bear to watch as Susan, smiling again, stepped forward to place a hand on their little brother's shoulder, drawing him into a hug when Lucy stepped back and which Edmund more than willingly returned.

His throat was frighteningly tight as he reflected that this was the warmest Edmund had acted towards any of them ever since he had started boarding school.

"Are you all right?"

Susan's question to Edmund, asked with a hint of relieved laughter, brought Peter back to the present.

They had broken their hug by this point, and the younger boy was smiling at her, "I'm a little tired."

Truthfully, he sounded exhausted.

Peter recovered himself enough to speak, "Get some sleep," and angled his head in the direction of his tent. It came out sounding harder and more impassive than he had meant it to.

But really, if he had put anymore warmth into it, he was afraid he would end up sobbing.

Edmund glanced at him, and apparently seeing something in his face, dropped his eyes and started on his way, smile gone and the weight returning to his shoulders. He hesitated when he passed Peter, uncertain, and it was all the older boy could do to not reach out and grab him.

The moment passed, and Edmund began walking again.

Susan and Lucy glanced at him, slightly apprehensive. Peter, however, was trying desperately to order the threatening tears to subside, and so, did not take much notice.

Suddenly he whipped around, speaking hurriedly, "And, Edmund?"

The younger boy paused, turning quickly and glancing back at him, hope and trepidation edging into his eyes.

Peter found himself tongue-tied, but he could not send his little brother off without saying _something_. His shoulders abruptly relaxing and a sort of half-grin forming on his face, his eyes faintly dancing and speaking far more warmly than he had before, he jested lightly, "Try not to wander off."

And finally, Edmund smiled at him—with the smile Peter remembered—before turning to walk off, step noticeably lighter.

What he did not know was that his older brother had choked on the rest of his words: _I'll be there in a minute_.

Blinking burning eyes, he turned resolutely back around and scanned the surrounding Narnians for one who could possibly help him.

A female centaur, chestnut with a white diamond on her back and named Mheidh, caught his gaze and cantered up to him. "Can I help you with anything, Sire?"

Peter felt his cheeks flush at the title, but nonetheless managed a flustered nod. "Er...um...a cloth? And a bowl of water? Where would I find them?"

Mheidh gave a polite cough, covering a laugh, and studied his face a moment. Then smiled knowingly. "I shall get them for you, Sire. Will your brother be needing any herbs?"

Disconcerted at how easily both Mheidh and Oreius could read him, the young man nodded once again. "A...salve, I guess. Um, for bruises? And herbs to prevent an infection. If it needs to be made, could you possibly do it?" He managed a sheepish smile. "I'm afraid I don't know much about herbs or salves."

Mheidh laughed lightly. "It should not be a problem, your Majesty. I shall return in a few minutes."

In saying so, she bowed once to the children and turning, galloped away to gather the materials Peter had requested.

A tug on his sleeve drew his attention back to Lucy and Susan. He smiled slightly at the younger of the two, "Yes, Lu?"

Grinning, she thrust something small and cylindrical into his hand. "Here. Use it for Edmund."

Peter glanced down at the bottle nestled in his palm. "Your cordial? But, Lucy…" he began to object, looking back up at her.

She gave a tiny pout. "What?"

The older boy chuckled softly. Kneeling, he gently pressed the precious cordial back into her hands, eyes shining with affection, "I know you want to help, Ed, Lu, but Mheidh's already gone to get the herbs. I don't think his injuries are so serious that he'll need your cordial this time. Save it for another day, all right?"

Lucy cast a troubled look in the direction of the boys' tent, but accepted back her cordial, slipping it into its pouch and turning to her oldest brother. "All right, Peter," she agreed quietly.

The thirteen-year-old warmly tousled her hair, standing. "Good girl."

Her grin returned as she dodged out of the way. "Peter!" she laughed, batting at his hands.

Peter grinned, opening his mouth to tease her, but at that moment Mheidh cantered back up to them, carefully balancing a bowl and small jar. Gingerly, she held the bowl out for the him to take—which he did, with great caution. The water within it, sprinkled with sweet-smelling herbs, sloshed slightly, but did not tip out of its container. Floating in the water was a white cloth, already drenched.

Curiously, Peter glanced up at her.

Mheidh laughed again, smiling. "The herbs for fighting the infection, your Majesty. The water is relatively warm—that allows the herbs' infection-fighting properties to be released into it. It will not lose that warmth until you are finished. One of the Dryads blessed it."

Gratitude entered his eyes. "Thank you."

"Certainly, Sire," Mheidh replied warmly. She handed him the jar containing the peach-hued salve. "As to this, it will reduce the bruising within a day or two's time. I know this, your Majesty, for I blended it myself. I promise you it will work."

Peter smiled slightly at her. "That I do not doubt."

Mheidh's cheeks tinged faintly and she bowed. "Thank you, Sire." Then she turned her warm gaze to Susan and Lucy. "As for you, my Queens, the Dryads have requested your presence at the looms. They wish for you to examine the royal standard and your coronation gowns."

Susan flushed with pleasure and delight, while Lucy looked a little more reluctant.

Peter, having determined the problem, gently nudged her with his elbow after carefully slipping the salve jar into a pack on his sword belt. "Go on, Lu," he encouraged her softly with a warm smile, "Ed and I will join you two later."

He smiled at Susan as his oldest sister placed an arm around Lucy's shoulders. Which the twelve-year-old returned before turning it to the younger girl, "Peter will be with him, Lucy. And we can probably slip away after we're through. How does that sound?"

The eight-year-old finally smiled. "All right."

With two final smiles at Peter and another bow from Mheidh, the three females walked off together, Lucy and Susan posing excited questions to the centaur who merely kept smiling and did her best to answer them.

Releasing a soft sigh, Peter turned and made his way towards the two boys' tent.

Cradling the beaten silver bowl with its cloth under one arm, filled halfway with the herb-laden water, the older boy slowly pushed aside a flap with his free arm, peering into the sunlit interior of the tent.

His eyes fell on Edmund who had sprawled somewhat inelegantly on top of a mound of cushions and blankets, hair tousled and face buried in the pillows. In spite of everything, Peter had to smile lightly. No longer hesitating, he quietly made his way over to his younger brother, still balancing the bowl.

When he reached Edmund, he slowly knelt beside the other boy's head and carefully lowered the bowl to the ground. Although the ten-year-old showed no signs of moving, Peter knew he was still awake, if only for a little bit longer.

Reaching out, he gently touched his brother's shoulder. "Ed?" he prompted.

He kept his light smile as the younger boy blearily raised his head, dark eyes half-shut with fatigue. Edmund glanced at him, not quite registering his presence.

And Peter felt a slight pang at having to keep his brother up when he so obviously needed some proper sleep, but it couldn't be helped. "I need you to stay awake a little longer so I can treat your injuries, all right?" he kept his voice soft and maintained his smile.

It almost faltered, however, when Edmund became more fully aware of just who was with him. For uncertainty and apprehension abruptly flared in the ten-year-old's eyes. And fear.

Fear of being struck.

Peter swallowed thickly, eyes burning with tears and heart burning with fury. What had that Witch done to _his_ little brother?

Determinedly, he battled back both tears and anger, for neither would help Edmund, and instead, began the action that would.

Plunging his hand into the warm water at his side and soaking the towel further, he drew it out—releasing a waft of the herb's sweet scent—and carefully wrung it.

Turning back to Edmund, he raised his hand, swathed in the cloth, to the younger boy's face.

The ten-year-old at first gave a hard flinch, squeezing his eyes shut and clearly expecting to be hit.

So when Peter gently pressed the wet cloth to the shallow cut near his right eye, and gently started cleaning it, those dark brown orbs flew open and the younger boy stared at his brother in unconcealed shock.

Peter made a point of smiling kindly at his younger brother, before returning to his ministrations.

Dirt and blood ran in slender rivulets off the cloth, but the older boy did his best to ignore them. Instead, he turned and dunked the cloth back into the water, lightly wrung it out, and lifted it back to the younger boy's face, continuing to tenderly clean out the wound.

Once finished with the one near his brother's eye, Peter again dunked the cloth into its silver basin and wrung it out, before carefully grasping the unwounded side of the younger boy's face. Light as his touch was, the ten-year-old nonetheless gave a small wince.

The thirteen-year-old's own blue eyes were touched briefly with sadness. But this was the best he could manage, and although he hated causing his brother further pain, he maintained his hold.

Carefully, Peter began cleaning the split lip, repeating the same process he had followed when tending the first injury.

Edmund, for his part, never let his eyes leave Peter. They followed his older brother's every movement and he did not bother to deny the fact that they were burning. He could feel the tears building up steadily behind them, but as yet, was unable to cry.

That the older boy was doing this for him, even after all the trouble he had caused; that Peter was tending to him, even after all the hurt and pain his actions must surely have triggered; that his brother still _loved_ him enough to do this, even after he had betrayed his siblings and the Good Narnians and Aslan to the White Witch, meant more to Edmund than Peter would probably ever know.

As it was, Peter happened to glance up at this point in time and catch the look in his younger brother's eyes. It arrested him, that look—dark brown eyes filled to brimming with at least a half-dozen different emotions, unshed tears causing them to shine brightly in the morning sunlight. In response, he felt his own throat tighten all over again, and the tears, still held at bay, beginning to beat relentlessly behind his eyelids.

In hopes of stalling the inevitable flood, Peter, after once again dunking and wringing out the cloth, started to sing:

---

"_Close your eyes and sleep now,_

_And sleeping, wander in your dreams._

_Take a trip and go there, where the ocean gleams._

_A stately ship is harbored there,_

_Waiting for you it seems._"

---

He was nearly done with the lip now, and meanwhile, Edmund sat silently, enthralled. For it had been many years since Peter had last sung him a lullaby:

---

"_It will take you across the ocean, and to the farthest sea,_

_Take you where planets dance and stars shine for all to see._

_To a king where he sits on his throne,_

_To a damsel in distress,_

_To the end of a rainbow, where hope is always best,_

_And to a flowering meadow, where you may take your rest._"

---

From the half-strangled gasp that ended that second verse, Edmund judged that Peter had found the rope burns around his wrists.

Finished with his brother's split lip, Peter had indeed. They were terribly raw and red. It was to the older boy's credit that this did not ruin his composure; it did, however, shake him up rather badly.

"Oh, Eddy…" he choked, enough pain in his voice to bring Edmund perilously close to tears.

But they did not fall.

Peter took up his cloth again, having dropped it in the beaten-silver basin out of shock. Gingerly, he took the first wrist into his hand and began to clean it, furiously battling back the heat behind his eyes. With no other way of distracting either himself or his brother, the older boy began to sing again:

---

"_Daddy's gone off to war,_

_Mummy's not at home,_

_But do not fear, because you are not alone._"

---

Peter had always been good at this sort of thing, Edmund reflected, swallowing thickly and bowing his head, surrendering himself completely to his older brother's care and losing himself in the clear timbre of his older brother's voice.

Their parents—and, admittedly, the three younger siblings—had never failed to marvel at the apparent ease with which Peter took the world around him and spun it into his songs.

And it certainly helped, the younger boy reflected further, that Peter had the world's most beautiful voice (in his siblings' opinions, anyway).

The older boy had switched to the second wrist at this point, and found it to be in the same wretched shape as the first one. Therefore, as he gently treated it, his voice wavered just the slightest fraction:

---

"_Though your days may be restless_

_And demons haunt your night,_

_You need not be frightened,_

_Because I will make everything all right._"

---

Peter cleared his throat after finishing that verse, and fell silent for a few minutes, tenderly cleaning the last rope burn and desperately trying not to lose what little grip he had on his composure.

As a consequence, even as he replaced the cloth in the bowl and drew out the salve from his belt-pack, his hands shook slightly as he unscrewed the jar's lid.

It was only as he scooped up the correct amount of salve with two of his fingers and gently began to apply it, that he started to sing again:

---

"_And if you don't believe me,_

_And if you miss love's unwavering glance,_

_If your mind is muddled, by the stars' and planets' dance;_

_Remember only this, that no matter where you are_

_I will find you there, and bring you back home._

---

"_Although stars may fall from the heavens,_

_And fire paint the sky,_

_You will not be alone._

"_You will not be alone._"

---

As Peter's lullaby came to a close, he could not prevent a note of defiance from entering that final statement.

By this point, the salve had been gently rubbed in, its lid closed, and the last of his injuries tended to. Edmund thus far had done an admirable job of restraining his tears. But as that last note sounded, clear and defiant and a promise in and of itself, a single tear leaked out of the corner of his eye. And Peter had the misfortune of looking up at him at that exact same moment.

That one tear did what reunion, reconciliation, and wounds could not.

It completely destroyed the last of his already fragile composure.

And that was how an utterly startled Edmund found himself with a lapful of sobbing older brother.

IOIOIOIOIOI

In later years, much to Peter's embarrassed delight, the lullaby he had sung his younger brother that morning would be recorded and circulated to countries as far south as Archenland and Calormen. For his voice had carried—quite without his knowing—outside their tent, and had brought the busy Narnians to a few minutes' standstill. Some prudent soul had heard it and, after the lullaby finished, had scurried off to the nearest tent and written it down.

And whenever the two brother-kings happened to hear it during one of their many travels, they would share a secret smile that no one else (save if you were of Narnia) could understand.

As it was, that had not happened, yet, and the lullaby was only just being written down. Neither was a king, yet, and at the moment, one was merely a terrified older sibling who had nearly lost his baby brother and one was merely a terrified younger sibling whose big brother had just broken down completely in his lap.

With shaking hands, Edmund began gently stroking Peter's sandy-blond hair. The older boy had buried his face in his arms, his entire upper body folded over and trembling, and broken sobs wracking his only somewhat larger frame as muffled, half-coherent cries reached his younger brother's ears, "I-I'm sorry, Edmund. This is all…this all my fault…if I hadn't…if the Witch hadn't…if I had only…"

Swallowing, silent tears running down his cheeks, Edmund croaked, "Peter, what…what are you…why…" His voice, much like his brother's, failed him.

Peter's harsh weeping was the only sound that filled their tent for the next few minutes, as Edmund's own tears—although very much present—remained silent. He kept stroking the older boy's hair.

Gradually, the sobs faded until he gave only the occasional uneven breath.

Grappling with his voice, the younger boy managed a single, strangled inquiry, "Peter?"

The shoulders beneath his hands quit their trembling and were squared resolutely.

Raising his head and upper body, the thirteen-year-old looked directly at his younger brother with a clear, unabashed tenderness that he had not shown in what seemed like years. And though tear tracks lined his cheeks, that did not prevent him from smiling.

In response, Edmund gave a sputtering laugh and allowed Peter—at last—to pull him into a tight hug.

They did not speak any further that morning, too emotionally worn out and too physically exhausted. When Lucy and Susan snuck into the tent later that day, it was to find both their brothers curled up together on a pile of pillows and blankets on the pavilion's floor, soundly sleeping.

**The End!**


End file.
